


Dig Deep

by Unsundered Dawn (laughingtoucan)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Gen, Hrothgar Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Lalafell Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 3.4: Soul Surrender Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29207919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingtoucan/pseuds/Unsundered%20Dawn
Summary: H'zura has risen to the challenge of wearing the mantle of "Warrior of Light" spectacularly. But amid his ever-excelling comrades, feels as if something is lacking within him. Having come up in poverty as an invisible nobody, the title weighs heavily. His echo is barely functional and his grasp of magic leaves much to be desired. If he's supposedly capable of so much, then what's wrong?
Collections: Dawnguard Fics





	1. Mihalo

“Where do you get it?”, he asks Mihalo out of the blue.

The quiet still of the night holds them gently, though it is occasionally broken by the distant clamor of those still insisting that decorating cannot wait until morning--excitedly shuffling furniture around within the newly christened free company home.

Mihalo tilts his head, quizzical. “Beg pardon?”

The man isn't quite a father figure to H'zura, but he offers all the safety of one; there's no real reason for subterfuge.

He points up to a constellation he almost recalls from their lessons and traces the path of stars with a finger. The Bole. “What you do with your cards. We’ve been over so much except...Where do you pull all that from?” The other man isn't the first he's considered asking, but shame keeps him from reaching out to Ursulin. He's sure that once upon a time, he thought of the Elezen as an equal. But the more he learns about his partner, the smaller he feels. Ursulin is educated, cultured, multi-disciplined. And it's the latter-most where H'zura feels himself struggle most keenly these days.

He feels like he's being left behind. And the shame buys his silence, quietly spreading like a poison. So he asks Mihalo. 

The aging Hrothgar casts a steady glance skyward, over the elevated horizon brought on by the rooftops in their ward. “Aside from my deck, you mean?” His faint smile builds and grows as he regards the heavens with fond familiarity. “...well, I’ve had extensive training, and while we were always meant to have the means to defend ourselves, I don’t think it was ever intended through astrology.”

He becomes quiet. His expression falters. His short, rounded ears twitch. The past is not a kind subject and for that, the others try to step around it as gracefully as possible. There is truly a gravity that settles as he thinks on it.

“I can’t say.” He sighs, biting carefully at the inside of his lip. “Though not for lack of trying. It’s just been something that’s always been present for me. Perhaps the ability to discern the will of the stars was a reason they took me into the palace. Though that’s not something I could ask them now…” Dalmasca is fallen and to his knowledge, his former lady patron is dead.

“All I have is what I’ve already told you: that our star is not the only one in this great sea.”

H’zura does not want a recap, but each lesson from the man shakes loose something new, so there is never a reason to stop him.

“Aether is plentiful here in Eorzea, but in that great endless space--” Mihalo gestures with a hand and H’zura takes a place on the same bench as his friend, to sit and gaze upward. “Oh, it’s _infinite_.”

H’zura’s nose twitches with the minor discomfort that comes creeping in. Too fresh is their encounter with others bearing Hydaelyn’s blessing in Dravania--though they themselves weren’t from Dravania, technically. Not from anywhere Eorzean. Somewhere broken and dying. “Wait,” he turns abruptly to the other. “Do you think we’re--that we could be...channeling someone else's?”

Mihalo’s eyes widen and an unexpected chuckle rumbles in his chest. “It's not so cruel.” He reassures, a hand lent to the miqo'te's shoulder briefly. While he worries constantly about H’zura’s health and the endless burdens taken on by him, it’s still refreshing to see the care and thought given to the world by the other. Above, a light streaks across the sky, chased by another in a heartbeat’s breadth. “There’s a radiance out there, living in each, but it glows and presses out. It’s a halo. A corona, even, of aether. From them, but no longer of them.” Mihalo ponders on it, then expands, “Like a shed skin of a snake or spider.”

\--a metaphor easily digested by the man who found pleasure in baiting yarzon as a child.

The hrothgar continues, “We're simply reaching out to it and drinking in that knowledge that’s been collected and set adrift for all willing to listen...”

He sounds so wistfully convinced, and while H'zura understands at a basic level, he cannot quite relate. In all of his studies of the art under the man, while he can find enough strands in the great aetheric cosmos to weave into minor spells, he cannot find the means to bridge the gap into spells of a higher potency...

“We take that and siphon it in. We learn from it. And from that--” He returns (so to speak), grinning, and flicks out a hand of cards--the faces all obscured from his younger counterpart. “--we heal, we change, we…” He chuckles again as he catches H’zura’s eyes train on the back of one specific card. “--we divine.”

Mihalo slips the card from his hand and holds it between them, looking briefly to it, then to H’zura--their gazes locking before the miqo'te’s dips to scrutinize the illustration on the face.

“--the Arrow, reversed.” He holds it loosely between his fingers and H’zura, after a moment of hesitation, takes it. Mihalo’s tired eyes hold concern, but his smile teases gently, the corners turned in an almost kitten-ish manner. “While normally symbolizing a voyage or resolution made and pursued--in that position, it means an internal struggle, uncertainties, and doubt.” He waits and simply watches the way H’zura’s brows knit together. The frustration playing across his features is undisguised, but unspoken for.

When the card is returned to Mihalo’s hand, H’zura speaks. “...no advice?”

Mihalo’s laugh is warm and clear against the darkened street. “Unless you ask, certainly not. I'm in no position to tell you how to lead your life. --only support your choices. I’ve known you long enough that I don’t need cards to divine how you feel. No matter the answer you’re looking for, I can’t find it for you.” The cards shuffle in-hand and he tucks them away and opens his arms. “But I will prattle on as much as you’d like in the meantime.”

H’zura has never been much for open displays of affection, romantic or platonic, but he graciously accepts the offer and lets the kindness sweep him in, easing himself face first into the Hrothgar’s broad chest. “When I find what I’m looking for...I’ll tell you, okay?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”


	2. Ruruto

“Where do you get it?”, he asks Ruruto, feigning nonchalance.

She makes a noise that he can’t quite discern. Might be a scoff: something dismissive. Could be a grunt; she sits on the floor of her new room: half bed space, half chirurgeon’s office, digging things out of a shipping crate that she means to put away--some alchemical such-and-such that he doesn’t know all the details to. Sunlight filters through the window at an angle, still rising to its zenith. He ought to start working on lunch soon.

But instead, he waits just inside her doorway, fighting the urge to fidget. The lalafell isn’t cruel, but she doesn’t pull punches. 

“What? The magic, you mean?” Setting aside a smaller box of well-packaged glass vials, she stands and dusts herself off, before tottering off to find a home for the protected liquids.

He shrugs. It’s difficult to sound noncommittal when he’s come looking for something so _specific_ . He struggles to sound merely _curious_. “More or less.”

“A traditional conjurer would tell you we’re communing with nature and drawing the aether it can spare to cast. It’s all energy and has to come somewhere, right? Black magic, white magic--” her snort is absolutely derisive. With her fragile cache left safe on a lower shelf elsewhere, she returns to her crate and begins to rummage anew. “It’s all the same when you get down to it. Pop a spell too strong for an area and you can basically kill everything. There’s a little girl learning conjury at the guild that thought she was ‘defiling’ nature that way and was sucking her own aether to cast. Nearly killed _her_.”

H’zura frowns and Ruruto sputters a laugh that turns into a sharp bark when she sees his face. 

“She’s FINE. Just needed a little wake up call. So--” she cuts off, grumbling, when she realizes enough has been removed from the crate that she can’t reach the rest at the bottom. Ruruto snaps her fingers. “Over here, you damn giant. I’d upend this thing, but everything is either alive or fragile, so get at it.”

Her directness, while trying at times, also disarms in a way that reminds him of O-Mono’s bluntness and Toucan’s boldness. As long as she’s not hurling insults, it’s nice. Just another piece of found family.

“Yes ma’am.” He delivers a nice, crisp salute just to be cheeky and she pops him on the ass for it. It’s only after unwinding enough of the loosely packed cheesecloth to reveal three small pots of newly sprouted herbs does she give him any further directions.

“Careful with those--” she warns, wagging a finger. “Get ‘em over by the window and crack it. Gotta let my babies breathe.”

He does without complaint and returns to fish the rest out from the bottom of the crate. Keeping busy physically lets his anxiety rest.

“You never really explained it though.”

She hops back onto a desk chair and thumbs through some papers as he sorts. “Oh right. Channeling.” She grabs up a quill and scribbles a bit, trying to sort out her answer. “...this is a paladin thing, right? Got a taste for the spell-slinging and wanted a glimpse of what it’s like playing with the big boys?” Her grin is nasty as her personality, all bite.

H’zura doesn’t deflect and laughs quietly. “Something like that.”

“Conjury definitely gets its roots in asking nicely. You’re literally putting out your own, aetherically speaking, and sucking it out of whatever will let you, and barring that, anything you can overpower. It’s kind of nasty when you think about it, but it’s gotta come somewhere. I’m just good at making a good case on the fly. Elementals just kind of bend over and let me go to town on the landscape.” She makes a rude, but not unexpected gesture, then returns to her papers. He’s still not fantastic with his letters, but he _thinks_ he catches Artoriel’s name scrawled out in her lines. Probably correspondence. It’s cute. 

H’zura keeps that to himself though, just for safety’s sake. The girl handles her own feelings poorly. (An emptied case of wine, all passers by to the Fortemps gazebo, and O-Mono’s bent ear could attest to that.)

“Anyway, when helping split the cost,” she says, “--it helps in our case since we’re all pretty much bottomless aether wells.” She taps her quill on a separate sheet brows furrowed as another set of vials emerge via his work. “Those over here. I’ve gotta verify the purity before I can do anything with ‘em.”

He doesn’t look sold by her ramble, but she’s already distracted by the clear green liquid as he gingerly sets it down.

“Was there anything else?”

There was, but she didn’t have the answer. That much was clear.   
“Nope.”

“Don’t let the door hit'cha on the way out, big boy.”


	3. J'talhdi

“Where do you get it?”, he asks J’talhdi over a shared pot of tea. Outside, a bright and busy day has fallen to twilight, with a fresh calm sweeping over the house.

She blinks owlishly over her cup, unused to the candid interest. Well, outside of her small group of peers. Suki is her equal, but their shared studies keep knowledge constantly flowing. N’uru, insistent on learning the more martial arts, has no interest in picking up their collective of books and notes, but is nevertheless always on edge when new breakthroughs are found. Tansui supports and listens and Rulex is...well, he was excited for their Leviathan at least. To her, H’zura is something stronger, sturdier--unshakeable. He is a hero that predates most of them. He’s seen Carteneau and held himself in Bahamut’s shadow.

And now in her office, seated on her couch, something seems shaken. Uncertain.

On the floor, Titan-Egi bumbles by, knocking around a stuffed carbuncle with displeasure. Their home must be maintained free of enemies.

She really isn’t sure how to respond initially. So she takes the route of the academic and asks more questions.

“I don’t think I understand.” She taps the rim of her cup and takes another, smaller sip. It’s still pleasantly warm. “What do you mean,  _ how _ ? I could go blue in the face talking about sacred geometry and calculations , but if you go--” She hides a shy little grin behind her cup, “No offense of course--I know you’re super good at what you do...but if your eyes glaze over and you check out...well, then I’m clearly not attacking the problem the way you need it to be.”

She’s seen Lex and N’uru do it more times than she cares to count. At least Tansui has enough willpower to try and look like he understands--though it mostly consists of quite smiles and appropriately timed nods.

H’zura takes the unfortunate but harmless jab with grace. “No. I get that. You’re fine.” He turns his own cup in his hands and J’talhdi knows something’s deep under his skin. It’s a blend she borrowed from the main kitchen--one of Ursulin’s favorites, shared regularly by the couple.

It’s still untouched by him.

He looks so tense sitting there and she feels guilty for even perceiving the weakness. It’s incredibly difficult not to put the other miqo’te on a pedestal, but his service record makes it rough. She tries though, bless her.

“So what do you mean?”

He thinks back to previous conversations, to things overheard from one side of the realm to the other, every bit of magical information he’s ever gleamed--and stared into his slowly cooling tea as if the bits at the bottom could give him the answer he wanted if he just tried  _ harder _ .

“I understand the channeling. I think it’s the part before that.” He doesn’t look up. “The aptitude.” The word feels ugly on his tongue.

The weight hanging after is palpable, spoiling both the floral tea and the sweetness of the honey drizzled into it.

Unaware of the situation’s unspoken gravity, on the floor, Titan glares at the clear glass teapot on her coffee table. Where once was water now appears dark and vibrant. The miniature primal sneers and hisses, prompting J’talhdi to scramble out of the awkward slump she’d let herself sink into with overstuffed beanbag--downing the remainder of her cup in a single gulp as she set it aside, readying to try and prepare for any kind of altercation.

“Touch that teapot, you oversized chicken nugget,” she threatens, “--and I’m gonna bury you in the garden and let the mandragoras have you.”

Chunks of orbiting crystal churn around it, but J’talhdi, unwilling to have her entire afternoon derailed by something that thought a blooming tea ball was a  _ threat display _ , simply scoops up the Egi and drags it back to sit with her.

“Sorry.” She huffs, aggressively petting the terrible little creature, hoping to appease it’s aggression with attention. “Some days he’s really spicy.” She squeezes the Egi hard enough to make it chitter, wriggling it’s arms and legs as she grasps at its fat little core. “I wanna help. I really do. But aptitude is something really beyond me?”

She doesn’t want to leave him shortchanged, but what could she say?

“Like, aptitude is tricky because you can have a rich kid with tutors and a poor kid with nothing and they’re always gonna say the rich kid has more skill just by virtue of having more time to practice or a teacher with more knowledge--but at the same time you can have someone with like, only enough aether to keep them alive and--” She pushes out a short, heavy sigh--it’s a complex issue and she’s not sure how to delve into all the details without running in circles.

“It...complicated.” She wrangles Titan under an arm and manages to pour herself another cup one-handed (and in doing so, inspires H’zura to finally start on his first). “In my case, I had a huge head start as an arcanist because my grandmother taught me. And anything I couldn’t learn from her, I got from the guild. But with all the stress off--” 

The fur on her tail bristles and her ears press down.   
What does she say? What  _ can _ she say? Minfilia is gone. They’ve killed a head-of-state. Ascians are on  _ other worlds _ .

She stirs the honey wand in its jar and lets a few loops drip off into her tea, before stirring it. “If this is a ‘you’ problem, like, a branching out thing--” She knows Mihalo is teaching some of them to dance and Astrology has been on the table for a good while already. “Well. Consider stress. I haven’t been able to digest anything outside of arcanistry because of it. I mean… We’re hardly aces in Ul’dah again and Ishgard is such a  _ fucking _ sack of cats and--”

Though not a drinker, dwelling on all the emergencies, close calls, and sleepless nights, she very nearly wishes she had something strong to top off her tea with.

Eventually she lets Titan wriggle away (moving the pot closer to her and further from the little nuisance in the process). “Whatever is going on, don’t stress it too much. People keep putting the weight of the world on our shoulders. So if you’re having problems, considering you’re putting swordsmanship first, it’s probably stress and your extracurriculars are suffering for it. It’s totally natural.”

It would get worse before it got better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We haven't quite pinned where it goes in the timeline, but fuck what the summoner quests say. J'talhdi and Suki absolutely put their heads together in a battle and pulled a huge fucking Leviathan-Egi out of their asses. They are perfection.


	4. Emet-Selch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ShadowBringers spoiler time. Also some wildly divergent post expac canon.

The rapier feels at home in his hand now--the curve of the metal comfortable as much as his standard sword does. The familiarity does have its drawbacks though…

“Keep your focus back! It’s not a shield! And here I thought it was only the people sundered--oh no, you’ve broken our very ideals down as well! Keep it _back_!” It’s bite and sass, but missing the edge they’d learned to begrudgingly tolerate on the First.

H’zura falls back in time to ready himself to deflect a blow, and knocks the incoming blade aside. He lunges into the space he’s made, only for his target to retreat in two quick, sweeping paces--damn those long legs.

Their practice arena is far from standard. It’s a place in their ward set aside for outdoor functions. And with the sun barely peeking over the horizon, it’s still too early for anyone to interrupt. Aside from the occasional cry of a waking songbird, all they have to contend with are the patter of their feet and the sharp strikes born of blades clashing.

H’zura rolls his eyes--or would have if he had the time to slack off. “Really? You’re really going to go for that this early in the day?”

Hades is still Emet here. Resentment still runs deep and Dawnguard expects nothing less. They're not sure they've entirely purged Zodiark's hold on the man, but he's not given them any reason for concern--more than usual, anyhow. Things are cordial. Professional. Not quite cold, but never truly amiable. 

Still, Emet's sneer is purely ornamental. “You assume I've even slept.”

Here, away from the eyes of others, changes come in small strokes. Part of him is opening up. Heartbreak does not truly lessen, but the burden becomes shared. He shares and H'zura shoulders.

“Are you serious? What do I keep telling you abou--” H’zura throws himself aside when he recognizes he has no time or space to block, and rolls to safety, his focus clutched to his chest.

Emet will not say he is grateful.  
But he is.

They blow off steam practicing. While still functionally immortal, Emet is almost replete of the aether stores that had made him into such a cosmically horrifying powerhouse. He tires now. Hungers. It makes him crankier in newer, more obnoxious ways, but H’zura takes it. 

He's challenging the man too, in his own ways.

 _I will know you. And I_ will _remember.  
_ It’s a feat of endurance, certainly, but not a punishment. H’zura wants more.

But for Emet, here he can dig deep and reclaim what strength he still has; each measure may only be found by the inches, but they are still found. The miqo’te, on the other hand, receives a taskmaster and training partner of immense skill. Emet is deceptively quick-footed--something he keeps flaunting in spades, and in that, struggles further and further to conceal his blossoming mirth when this jagged piece of what had been his dearest friend manages to _keep up_.

“Build up again!” Emet barks, side-stepping in an arc that begets them into circling, practically dancing in their steps. “I want to see that Flare!” Collectively, they've managed to infuse Emet's wardrobe with a few new articles (it gives them a chance to clean the old coat, thankfully). He's never without gloves, at least during waking hours. He leans toward sleek and elegant boots. He prefers layers--anything that adds inches, making him broader and fuller than he actually is. When sparring however, he keeps things practical: he refuses to pass on looser shirts, but insists on sleeves that cuff from the elbow-down. Pants are always snug, shirt tucked in. He'd be handsome if he looked less miserable and unwashed.

The din the two cause, spells and shouts volleying back and forth, are no longer novel to the surrounding homes. They’ve even managed to wake a whole block during one incident, and...may have, by H’zura’s hand, burnt down a tree with a misfired spell. But now, with a reliable schedule in place, through sheer repetition, have convinced would-be onlookers to keep far, far away. One house sets their clocks by it and take the sound of H'zura's literal thunder as sign to wake for the day.

H’zura does not complain when the command is made of him, but he does struggle. He knows the mechanics, the patterns necessary and how to weave them seamlessly, but the spells themselves lack power. Wind, lightning, stone, fire. _Come on, boy, fight like you mean it. Don’t just throw, put some weight into it_ \--

Emet makes him work for it. He lunges as H’zura charges his spells, interrupting them left and right, and pays for it in turn with a bruising from a whip-crack blast of stone that will keep him up tonight.

He’s slower for the attention he pays, but it’s worth it. By the time the Flare erupts, shaking the foundation they stand on, but little else, his mind is set. 

H’zura stands firm, brows furrowed in concentration as Emet’s shield dissipates like mist in the sun. Then he trembles--it starts in his grip and shoulders, sinking fast into his knees. When he collapses, his focus toppling out of the air and into a well-manicured nearby bush, Emet doesn’t rush to him, but he does sheathe his blade and move to gather the other’s weapon.

“I have everything I need.” He announces flatly. His usually messy hair, while rumpled, lays a little flatter. He’s a sweaty mess, but H’zura is no better.

H’zura pants loudly and shamelessly, spent on the ground, though he labors to push himself up to sit, there's no energy left to care with. He swallows down the thickness in his throat. “Took you long enough.”

Emet snorts. Tries to focus less on what’s lacking and instead on what could be. Hope isn’t his strong suit. “Forgive me if I wanted to see how long you could press yourself.”

H’zura waves him off dismissively, with all the grace of one shooing off a persistent gnat. A silent but well spoken _‘fuck off and get on with it_ ’.

“You,” Emet punctuates, “--are nothing more than a broken pane of stained glass. Though before you insist your rebuttal on it, I suggest you let me continue with specifics and how they differ from my usual brand of unpleasantries.”

Again with the hand-waving. H'zura's lungs burn and the rambling gives him time to catch up with himself.

The Ascian continues. “Sunderings are not clean cuts. Drop a ceramic bowl and it’s certainly not going to fan out like slices of an orange for you.” They could in theory, if one built the proper concept for it first, but that chance went out like a light eons ago.

H’zura nods. The sting is nearly gone. His breath shudders, but draws more deeply.

“Where I wasn’t sure of it before, now I have no doubt. While you, mathematically, empirically, more of less have half the aether stores of an average Ascian, what with your rejoined pieces, you are, very specifically, still made of some of the least magically inclined pieces of my--” He skips up. Swallows his kindness. “You’re still missing key pieces of Azem’s core abilities. You have strength and endurance far beyond your mortal kin. But in terms of your fellows here, you’ve the magical talent not unlike a garden vegetable. To use the broken glass metaphor, you’re all these pieces: reds and yellows, but none of the blues or greens. You may be closer to whole than ever, but you are simply missing the pieces of the image that say ‘ _magic-go-boom_ ’. Bluntly put, you're all the meat and none of the sparkle."

That...hearing the diagnosis, as unpolished and brutal as it was, came as a relief long pined for: There was simply nothing he could do.

“That’s it?” H’zura throws his head back and sputters into fragmented and bubbling laughter. “A pepper with a shield?”

Rapier held under an arm with focus retracted, Emet shrugs, playing impassive--his gaze cast aside in a show of dramatic boredom. If you put scenery in his mouth, he’d have chewed that too. “More or less.”

Perhaps, knowing the full truth of things, it was time to dwell less on what he had not and the massive insecurity that followed, and more on what he’d accomplished. Too often he impressed upon the others in the company that they were only human. Limitations were natural. It was a lesson _he_ needed more than anything else. Learning of his first--his original life, had been devastating to his already-weakened self image. But if there was anything he could breath deeply of from Emet, was that he was not Azem. Living as a piecemeal shadow would bring him nothing. The path to escape that broadly-cast darkness would be long, but not impossible by a long shot. He was H’zura: a fleet-footed, shield-wielding, well-tempered cook who kept his promises and warmed those around him, whether they liked it or not.

Someone would always be stronger. Sturdier. More ruthless. More _attune._ But hearing it from Emet...he could live with that now. Perhaps he'd just needed time to accept himself in full. Perhaps it was his piece of Azem that resonated with Emet's words. Or perhaps he just worked better under pressure...even if that pressure came in the form of a catty old man.

“Now--” the man tucks H'zura's focus into a pocket and offers a hand, not to hold, but to follow. “--are you going to get up or do I have to find a fresh way to wound your pride? You don't seem so ready to react until I'm thick into telling you how dreadfully broken you are.”

“Listen.” H’zura grins as he comes up into a low crouch, laughter still in his chest stinging his sore and battered sides. “I’m gonna do something one of these days and surprise you. Really knock you off your feet and arthritic knees. And then I’m gonna make some mind-blowing brownies and then you're gonna eat those words.” Then pushes himself to stand, with shoulder dropped low in his exhaustion. “--and then some of my brownies.”

Emet offers up another of his signature ropey shrugs. "Honestly, considering the ways you've already managed to surprise me with your unorthodox methods, I wholeheartedly invite you to try."

The sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So instead of just blasting his ass into oblivion, the kids fish the leftovers of Emet's soul out of the lifestream and pop him into one of the soul vessel pokeballs to bring home & jam into one of his backup bodies. Because while his plan was "cool story, still murder", he's still sympathetic. And hey, maybe they might just bring him around with the power of friendship and love or...something. Just go full Shounen trope and let him on the team.
> 
> They hope. Til then he's Salt Grandpa running on like, 2% power.
> 
> Also something something untempering-work-in-progress. Can't let him keep marinating in zodiark brain juice. That just ain't healthy.


End file.
